


Fortissimo

by jomipay



Series: A touch of leather, a collection of human BDSM au's [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Accidental Flirting, Alternate Universe - Human, BDSM, Blow Jobs, Dom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dom Crowley (Good Omens), Dom/sub, Flogging, M/M, Multi, Other, Praise Kink, Spanking, Sub Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sub Crowley (Good Omens), Switch Aziraphale (Good Omens), Switch Crowley (Good Omens), aziraphale plays violin, crowley plays cello, just sex oh wait caught the feels, orchestra AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:47:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22081312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jomipay/pseuds/jomipay
Summary: Crowley is a cellist with something to prove. Aziraphale is a violinist at the symphony that's just taking him on for a job. The attraction is immediate, and they have more in common than they know.“If we are to do this, we should discuss expectations. For instance, I’m not looking for anything serious.” Aziraphale arched a brow, waiting to see if this might pose a problem.“Nor am I. I don’t have the time for anything serious.”Azirphale let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. That was true for both of them.Crowley leaned against the counter. “We should keep these sorts of meetings here, unless you’re opposed?”Aziraphale shook his head. “No, I’m not opposed, I find the private rooms here to be quite adequate.”“Well then, I think we might be able to work out an arrangement.”Crowley held out his hand. Aziraphale wrapped his own hand around it and shook it. A handshake seemed strange, but appropriate.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: A touch of leather, a collection of human BDSM au's [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1589446
Comments: 31
Kudos: 140





	Fortissimo

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, I just really love human bdsm au's.

To say that Crowley was a bit nervous, was a tremendous understatement. He stood facing the stone steps leading up to a rather intimidating stone building. He scowled and glared through his dark sunglasses. People shoved past him and around his bulky case on the sidewalk as he gathered his nerve. He paid them no mind; he had good reason to be nervous. There was certainly no one inside that building that would be happy to see him. The best he could hope for was apathy. Ambivalence, perhaps. He knew it was too much to hope for anonymity. If there was anyone in the symphony now that hadn’t been when he was a member, word surely would have gotten around by now.

He braced himself and took a steadying breath. He picked his case up and hauled it and himself up the stone steps. He got halfway up before he considered turning right around and walking away. He was an idiot. This was a very, very bad idea. He would have said no if he knew what was good for him. As it was, he did know it would not be good for him, but that did nothing to dampen his desperation. The Society Symphony of London had needed a soloist on short notice—apparently theirs had been in an unfortunate automobile accident and had broken a wrist. It was _very_ short notice for the project. Crowley would have taken immense pleasure in turning down Michael and Beez’s pleas; but found he couldn’t. The opportunity was too great to turn down. He hadn’t worked as a soloist in years. He aced auditions, but there was an asterisk near his name, a blemish on his reputation. This was the place, _these were the people_ , responsible for that blemish, and they had the power to remove it. He wobbled on the step he was perched on.

_Jesus, get it together._

His cocktail of anxiety, fatigue, and the desperation and eagerness to please, to redeem, was not going down smoothly. He steadied himself and soldiered on into the building, swaggering as he went. He was headed into the lion’s den; it was time to be a lion.

He took a moment to admire polished tile floors and the enormous chandeliers, collecting light and scattering it around the lobby. He scrubbed his face, fought the urge to yawn. He was so tired. He’d been staying up late working on the pieces, trying to get them to a presentable place. His eyes traced the dangling ornaments of a large chandelier before settling on a bustling corner of the vast room. He sighed in relief; the café was still there. He stood in line, tapping the excess energy coursing through his body out through a foot. He took his black coffee and rolled his cello down a hall to a relatively quiet alcove, where he settled on a bench. He shrugged his bag off his shoulders and took his sheet music out. He pushed his sunglasses up into his hair to see in the dim lighting. First rehearsals were the fucking worst and this first rehearsal was going to take the damn prize. He tapped one of his boots, keeping time while he ran through notes in his head, paying special attention to fingerings and bowings he’d scrawled above measures.

He’d worn his snakeskin boots today, wanting any kind of comfort or confidence he could muster with him. He’d worn his favorite black jeans, too. The snug fit of them around his legs was comforting. The din coming from the lobby was clanging around in his head, making it hard to focus. He dug in his bag for his noise cancelling headphones and put them on. The din faded to almost nothing and he relaxed, just the tiniest bit. He made it to the end of the section. He knew it was best to take a break before going through it again, so he pulled his phone out. He resisted the urge to pull up the symphony roster and scrutinize all the familiar faces, to remind himself precisely what the eyes that would be judging him looked like. He waited until he was sure he wouldn’t be the first one backstage warming up to head down—there was no need for everyone else to see how nervous he was.

He found an isolated corner and ran through scales and warmups before working on a difficult section. His hands were shaking. Everything felt far too familiar for how long he’d been away. He shouldn’t remember the precise sheen of the music stands, the blurry grey coloring of the speckled carpet. From across the room, a harsh peal of laughter broke through his tenuous concentration. He wasn’t surprised to find he remembered it belonged to Gabriel. It was a mocking, vile sound and it brought him right back.

_“I’m leaving!” Crowley insisted. And there it was, that harsh laugh, that mocking laugh, full of contempt and condescension._

_“And where are you planning on going, sunshine?”_

_Tears spilled out of his eyes and he swiped at them with the back of his hand. The fingers of his other hand clutched the handle of his case so hard the knuckles turned white, showing the bones beneath the skin._

_“You don’t need to know.” Crowley whispered, backing himself out the door as Gabriel stalked towards him. Crowley threw the door open and ran down the stairs as fast as he could manage with his cello in tow._

It had been years now, and he still remembered that laugh. The joy its owner took from his suffering, from his failure and pain.

All too soon he found himself sitting in the little black chair on the wooden stage, where even the grains beneath his feet were familiar. Only Beez, standing on the rostrum scowling as she flipped through sheets, separated him from a clear view of the greatest source of his anxiety. He’d hoped maybe someone had supplanted him as concert master. But of course not. He despised his own optimistic streak; it only ever got him into trouble. His warmup was a distant, foggy memory in his addled head. He could still see Gabriel’s profile around Beez and it was making his stomach twist. He’d known this would be the hardest part, known he’d essentially be staring the man in the face the entire time. He knew he’d be able to feel his eyes scrutinizing his every motion. Those violet eyes would judge him only to find him lacking. He took a few deep breaths and resolved to focus instead on the blonde sitting to Gabriel’s left. That wasn’t too hard, he was easy on the eyes. Crowley didn’t know him, he was new—well, relatively new anyway. The man must have felt him staring because he looked up and held Crowley’s gaze with brilliant blue eyes before giving him a genuine smile. Yes, the blonde would do. He could pretend he was performing to the blonde, narrow everything down to an audience of one, blot everyone else out of his vision.

He got his rock stop situated under his chair and spent a few seconds fiddling with the length until he was satisfied. His endpin was sharp enough that he could probably go without, but he’d gotten used to using rock stops and he wasn’t about to change that now. Anything to make him feel less nervous. He flipped through his pages to the section he’d been studying earlier and tentatively pulled his bow across the strings. He grimaced and gave one of the pegs a quarter turn back and nudged it forward again until he was satisfied. He started again and stopped just as quickly. He plucked the rosin out of his pocket and unwrapped it, giving his bow a generous coating. The rosin wasn’t sticking to the hairs as well anymore, he’d have to have his bow rehaired soon; an inconvenience. When he drew the bow across the strings again a little cloud of the sticky substance erupted in a small cloud. He paused when his stand partner sat down next to him in a whirl of heavy skirts and whooshing fabrics. She had dark hair that cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. The front most pieces were pulled up high on her head, away from her face in a messy bun. She was new, too.

“Anathema.” She stuck her hand out, waiting patiently for him to take it.

_American. Not so unusual._ Plenty of foreigners in the symphony.

He shifted his bow to his other hand, holding it and the neck of his cello so he could take her hand. “Er, Crowley.” His hand was shaking when she took it.

“Nervous?” Her tone was light.

Was he that obvious? Crowley exhaled heavily. “You could say that.” He didn’t see the point in lying.

Anathema nodded, bobbing the bun on her head. “I would be, too. I won’t bother you with small talk, then.” She smiled and turned her attention away from him.

Perfect, because he couldn’t possibly manage to have any semblance of a conversation right now. He couldn’t stop himself from twitching. He shuffled his sheets, suddenly feeling very overwhelmed by the amount of material. Not only did they want a soloist for their concerto, but they wanted him to do orchestral work as well. They liked having all their soloists in house; liked being able to show off that way and they didn’t like paying the big money for out of house talent. He was expected to slip seamlessly into the role of their injured principal cellist, who’d had months to prepare this same concerto. He told himself that no one would expect him to be perfect with the time he’d had to work with. It felt like a hollow promise, even in his own head. They were lions, all of them, waiting to pounce at the first sign of weakness. Beez had agreed to gradually speed the concerto over the upcoming rehearsals, for which Crowley was thankful. Gabriel stood to adjust his stand and Beez wasn’t tall enough, even standing on the rostrum, to block out the leer Gabriel leveled him with. His stomach churned painfully. Beez tapped her baton on the stand and the cacophony of musical strains died in the space of a breath. Somewhere to Crowley’s right, the tuning ‘a’ rang out from an oboe, and then the room was thrust into life again until the next _tap tap tap_ of the baton.

Mercifully, they were starting with Smetana. Crowley liked Vltava, it was soothing, and he’d played it before. Maybe his hands would stop shaking by the end of it. Crowley waited dutifully for Beez to raise the baton. When she did, he raised his bow and took a deep breath. To his right, he heard Anathema do the same, and then it began. Near the end of the piece, they took a break so Beez could work with the first violins.

Something was nudging Crowley’s arm. In a daze, he realized it was Anathema.

“Feeling any better?”

“I was.” Crowley admitted. But now Vltava was almost over, and the next piece was the concerto.

Anathema didn’t have any time to pry more than that. Beez brought them together again to finish the piece. She gave them a few minutes to practice in between while everyone shuffled music around. Someone brought a chair out and set it down next to the rostrum, in the soloist’s traditional place at the left hand of the conductor. Right in front of _him_.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck._

His heart rate was rapidly escaping his control. He’d prepared for this. He’d known exactly where he’d be sitting. Cleary, he hadn’t prepared well enough, because the sight of the empty chair in front of Gabriel was terrifying.

A delicate, but strong hand gripped his forearm.

“Hey, _hey_.”

Crowley’s head snapped to look at her.

“It’s going to be fine.” There was a fierce confidence in her eyes that almost made Crowley believe it.

Crowley focused on taking slow, even breaths. He let the hand on his forearm ground him. After several agonizing moments, he found his voice.

“Just uh, Gabriel and I don’t really get on these days.” He shrugged in an unaffected way, but his voice betrayed him.

Anathema blinked. “I didn’t know he got on with anyone.”

Crowley actually managed to chuckle at that.

“Look,” Anathema squeezed his arm, “I don’t know what they’ve told you, but you’re the best they’ve got for this.”

Crowley found that hard to believe. He didn’t even know why she was being friendly. She was the second chair; she should have been upset that he’d taken the principal’s place instead of being promoted to it instead. She probably even knew the concerto, soloists usually had backups, like understudies in theatre.

His doubt must have been easy to read from his face.

“There was Umberto’s accident and then two days later the second chair took a job with the Royal Symphony, and then two days _after that_ , the third chair went into early labor.”

Crowley took a moment to process. This was all totally foreign information.

“None of us wanted to do the concerto _and_ their cello section was looking a little thin. Look, I’m sure they’re jerking you around and gossip about you hasn’t been kind, but you’re what they’ve got. Don’t be nervous,” Crowley made a face, “or be less nervous; you’re their fucking savior.”

Crowley swallowed. He wanted Anathema to keep talking.

“Just pretend ass-face over there isn’t here.”

“Planned on it. Was gonna focus on his stand partner. He looks nice.”

Anathema’s eyes lit up. “Oh, that’s perfect! Yes, Aziraphale’s a total sweetheart—the anti-Gabriel—absolutely focus on him.”

_Aziraphale. Jesus what a name._ Crowley gazed across the room again, taking in the sheen of the white blonde curls, the little halo of light reflecting off them from the stage lights. It suited him.

“Oh, and it’s gonna have to be slow because none of us,” she gestured to the stand behind her, “were supposed to be playing for the concerto _at all_.”

This made Crowley relax significantly. The Vivaldi concerto he was playing usually only used the first one or two stands from every string section, like a chamber piece. If they’d lost three cellists in the span of the last two weeks, then the whole section was in disarray—not just Crowley. Beez fixed him with a sharp gaze, telling him it was time. He grabbed his cello and all its accessories and stood on legs that belonged to a newborn giraffe, for all the stability the provided him. He stared at the chair, not letting his eyes wander as he walked carefully to the other side of the rostrum. When he made it, he angled the chair so that it was facing more towards Beez and away from Gabriel. He settled himself, feeling as jittery as ever as he got everything organized. He fumbled the rosin as he took it out of his pocket, cringing as it rolled away behind him on the floor. He’d rather leave it there than have to turn around and pick it up. It would crumble his delicate façade of comfort. He’d resolve to just leave it there and pick it up later. Actually, maybe he’d just leave it wherever it had rolled off to. He’d resigned himself to this course of action when a puff of warm breath tickled his ear and a hand appeared over his shoulder, rosin gripped in its fingers.

“Here my dear, you’ve dropped this.” The voice was full-bodied and rich, like the fine red wines Crowley loved to indulge in. It was sweet and soothing. Their fingers brushed as Crowley raised his hand to take it. The man— _Aziraphale_ , Crowley reminded himself—gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze as his hand made its retreat. The façade remained in place. People shuffled around him, with some unnecessary personnel for the piece opting to run to the loo or up for a coffee.

He worked out the speed with Beez, selecting a challenging, but ultimately doable pace. Some day soon, he would be able to handle the knowledge that Gabriel was sitting mere feet away from him, breathing his air, boring holes into his head; but today did not have to be that day, not yet. He inhaled, staring at Beez’s raised baton, waiting for it to drop. On the first downbeat, he exhaled and squeezed his cello between his knees, raised his bow, and willed the rest of the world to drop away.

Beez let them make it through the whole thing. She saved all her notes for the end.

“Right, so not bad for a first run through with all the new folk,” She scanned her dominion with her dark eyes, “but I have some things for everyone to work on.”

She started with Crowley. Her expression was perfectly neutral and it betrayed nothing.

“Louder, more confident overall, but not bad. Faster next time, yes? Good.” He released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. She moved on to the first violins and he tuned out, quietly making his way back to the safety of his section as quickly as he could. He made it just as Beez was starting on the violas. Anathema mouthed ‘Good job’ to him with a toothy grin as he sat down. The rest of the rehearsal was blessedly uneventful and mundane. He almost couldn’t believe he’d made it when it was time to pack up and go.

Anathema caught him as he was walking out of the building, ready to go home and pass out, fully clothed on top of his bed.

“Drinks?” She had a gangly looking lad in tow, one of the tenors he thought.

Crowley really wanted a nap but found himself hard pressed to refuse the promise of alcohol and the company of people who were being nice to him.

He peered down at her over his shades and shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah, s’pose I could do with a few drinks.”

She grinned triumphantly. He let her lead the way, floor length skirts flouncing as she bounced down the steps. Apparently, her lad, Newton, had a flat not too far away, right across from a few little pubs. Crowley dropped his cello with Anathema’s in the flat and followed her across the street. He had a couple of pints, exchanged barbs with Anathema—who luck would have it was quite feisty—and managed to have a good time. By the time he made it back to his flat, he was exhausted, but feeling a bit lighter. As he exerted the extra effort to strip, put his pajamas on, and crawl under the covers, he mused that maybe there were a few people in the Society Symphony that might like him yet.

***

While Aziraphale could practice just about anywhere he pleased—one of the benefits of playing a smaller instrument—he was quite partial to using the practice rooms in the Society building. He found himself less likely to get distracted in the bare rooms. His flat was certainly cozier, but he would inevitably get tired and go make himself a cup of cocoa or tea and settle in with a book for what he told himself would just be a break of ten minutes or so. Inevitably, ten minutes turned into thirty which sometimes turned into an hour, by which point Aziraphale found he was quite hungry, and then his ten minute break had devolved into a two hour long divergence. Much better to get a few hours in at the Society. He’d just come up on the end of his second hour and as such he was allowed a reward.

He made his way to the little café in the lobby and surveyed the day’s selections of pastries behind the glass, eventually deciding on a simple croissant. As he waited, he caught sight of a familiar flash of red in the queue. Aziraphale’s stomach fluttered with excitement. He wasn’t supposed to talk to Crowley, Gabriel had made it clear that associating with him would only tarnish his reputation. As much as Aziraphale liked fitting in and flying under the radar, he usually thought Gabriel’s advice was a load of bollocks. Crowley had looked quite terrified at that first rehearsal until he’d settled into the concerto. And Aziraphale was quite impressed with the performance. It had been very good for a first run and he’d done it in spite of all the nerves. Aziraphale always had problems with nerves performing solo pieces.

Crowley’s head snapped up suddenly; Aziraphale had been staring and it would seem he’d been caught. He gave a friendly little wave and a smile, which Crowley returned. Crowley joined him as he waited for his croissant. It came out on a little plate right before Crowley’s black coffee was handed over the counter, steam spewing from the paper cup.

“Hello, I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure of meeting yet.” Aziraphale extended his hand. “I’m Aziraphale.”

“No, we haven’t. Crowley.”

Crowley’s fingers were long and elegant, his hands were large and strong. Aziraphale had always had kind of thing for hands, and Crowley’s were beautiful. The whole man was beautiful, really. Aziraphale offered to share a little table with Crowley, who was also taking a break from practicing in one of the rooms. He gave him what he hoped was surreptitious once over, taking in the long lines of his body and his shoulder length red waves. He had long legs encased in tight black jeans. It was the kind of figure that Aziraphale always found so beautiful wrapped up in some intricate shibari pattern. His form belied a kind of sinewy, lithe strength. The kinds of muscles that were so expressive; the kind of body that was so deliciously _responsive_. He had a completely unbidden and inappropriate vision of Crowley’s back arching, muscles rippling while being flogged.

Aziraphale physically shook himself.

“Are you alright?” Crowley asked with a measure of concern.

Aziraphale realized with horror that he’d been quite rude and had missed whatever it was Crowley had just been talking about.

_Lord, how uncouth, how absolutely inappropriate._ Really, he didn’t even know this man and here he was, mind going off on lecherous flights of fancy.

“I’m sorry dear, I seem to have zoned out for a moment,” he chuckled nervously, “lose my own head next—what was it you were saying?”

“Oh, if I don’t understand that. Feel like I’ve been walking around with my head chopped off for the last week!”

Crowley had an animated way of speaking, using his hands and his body to fully express himself. Aziraphale quite liked this about him. It had a certain sort of uninhibited, careless quality to it. It excited him and he found himself speaking more earnestly to him than he had to anyone in recent memory. Crowley had asked after his history with the Society Symphony while Aziraphale had been _distracted_. Aziraphale relayed to him that he was a rather new addition, just this year, in fact. He’d only recently earned second chair, supplanting Sandalphon, who’d been extremely put out and unfriendly regarding the entire affair.

Crowley laughed upon hearing that. He leaned toward Aziraphale conspiratorially.

“Don’t feel too bad, angel. Sandalphon’s a git, he’s always been a git. About time someone put him in his place.”

Aziraphale’s heart hammered treacherously in his chest at Crowley’s casual use of the endearment ‘angel’. Charming, this man. Gabriel had told him about that, in a rather derogatory sort of way. How had he put it, _charming—like a snake_. With his lithe body and long lines, his swaggering walk and eyes so golden they were almost yellow, Aziraphale supposed he was a bit reminiscent of a snake. But that was far from a bad thing. Azirpahle had always found snakes to be beautiful. Dangerous of course, but that only really added to the appeal—beautiful and dangerous was quite an alluring combination. It was part of the reason that when he chose to be submissive, he favored pretty dominants and the sort of impact play that bordered on brutal. Beautiful, dangerous, _thrilling_.

And there he was getting distracted again. He had been rather stressed lately and he was becoming more and more aware that he was in need of some relief.

Crowley’s concerned voice brought him out of his head, again.

“Sorry,” He srunched his nose, “Was that too much?”

“What?” Aziraphale blinked, fearing he’d missed another question or snippet of conversation.

“I won’t call you that if you don’t want, it’s just the name and,” he used one of his hands to wiggle at his hair, “the hair.”

“Oh, oh no, I don’t mind at all, quite the opposite actually.” In Aziraphale’s rush to comfort him, his mind hadn’t quite caught up with his mouth.

Crowley raised an eyebrow and gave an interested, “Oh?”

It was then that Aziraphale realized what he’d said and began to turn an alarming shade of pink to match his utter mortification.

Crowley propped his head up on his hand, elbow on the table. “God, is that fetching.”

Aziraphale turned impossibly pinker.

Aziraphale saw the wave of alarm crash across Crowley’s face. “Did I just say that out loud?”

Aziraphale nodded, cheeks aflame, and watched with amusement as Crowley’s own cheeks began to color.

“Fuck—shit! Sorry!” Crowley covered his face with his hands, looking away in embarrassment as Aziraphale desperately willed the heat from his cheeks.

They both stared at the table until the chaos of the moment had passed. Aziraphale composed himself enough to resume conversation.

“Are you down in the practice rooms?” He inquired politely.

Crowley furiously gulped some of his coffee, nodding. “Yep.” He replied, popping the ‘p’ at the end of the word.

“Just get more done there, easily distracted me.”

Aziraphale gave a little wiggle. “Oh, me too!”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, absolutely, just so many things to get caught up in.”

“Suppose there are.” Crowley mused. He got up from the table and Aziraphale followed in his stead. They walked down to the practice rooms together. Aziraphale stopped in front of his room.

“You know, I usually have lunch around this time, most days. That is if you’re around and desire company.”

Crowley’s expression was unreadable. It almost looked to Aziraphale that he couldn’t believe someone was offering to interact with him on a regular basis.

“That is, I find a bit of human interaction to be especially refreshing after being locked in one of these rooms for a few hours.”

Crowley blinked, eyes going a bit vacant for a moment. Finally, he said, “Yeah, alright.” He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the rooms at the very end of the hall. “I’m usually in one of those. Just come knock when you head out.”

Aziraphale found himself dreadfully distracted the rest of the day. He forced himself to practice for another couple of hours before heading out. When he got home, he placed his violin on the kitchen table and flopped onto his couch. Oh, but he was stressed. He’d been ignoring it but the weight of it was finally bearing down on him. He closed his eyes, trying to relax. Inevitably he thought of Crowley, and with a telling flutter of his heart, he thought about seeing more of Crowley. Honestly, that was a ridiculous notion. Nothing to get worked up about. They were both professionals and while he had certainly enjoyed Crowley’s company this afternoon, and hoped to do so in the future, any notions of a further relationship were not to be entertained. He’d worked so hard to be sitting next to Gabriel, as the second chair. He’d opened the flood gates. Not only was Sandalphon eager to get his seat back, but now the rest of the section knew it was possible. Aziraphale had shown them that the pecking order wasn’t set in stone and that it was possible to move up in it. The whole section was nipping at his heels and he felt an immense pressure to perform. The whole section was in chaos, everyone vying to outdo one another, to outperform each other, to move up the ladder. Aziraphale thought that was probably the reason for his promotion, more than anything else. Sow the seeds of chaos, light a fire under the sections collective arse and get everyone to perform better as the clambered over each other.

His thought wandered the lecherous way of his lunchtime fantasies and he found he did not want to deny himself. It had been so long since he last indulged. He tried not to think of Crowley, but it was hard. The attraction he felt was carnal, animalistic. He thought about Crowley’s long fingers wrapped around the handle of a flogger as he towered over him as he kneeled. The image went straight to his dick, blood rushing to it, filling it quickly. He unbuttoned his trousers and shoved them roughly off his hips, freeing his erection and wasting no time. He took himself firmly in hand and stroked until he was coming in thick, sticky ropes over his hand. He relished in the relief it brought him, feeling relaxed enough to curl up for a nap. When he awoke from his nap, he found the relief he’d attained earlier was short lived. He was itching in that special way that only a special kind of hand could scratch. Aziraphale sighed heavily and put on some evening attire, which only differed form his current attire in that there were a couple less layers.

Aziraphale had been a patron of the club he used to itch his special scratches for a year or so. It was a posh sort of spot, meant to be a cleanly and respectable place for is patrons to engage in decidedly debauched activities. He reflected on this as he sipped his drink. There were the occasionally creeps that wandered in, and sometimes someone would get a bit too rowdy or disrespectful, but those individuals were always dealt with and thrown out swiftly. Aziraphale had never felt anything but safe here. His eyes wandered to a couple across the room. The dom, a short and curvy female wearing leather thigh highs, was currently flogging a well-muscled male submissive with sandy brown hair. Aziraphale finished his drink and wandered towards them, staying a respectable distance away. The dom caught him watching after a couple minutes. She caught his gaze with mischievous eyes, beckoning him closer.

“You wanna play, honey?”

Aziraphale eyed the heavy flogger in her hand and nodded.

They talked beforehand, negotiated. She asked Aziraphale how hard he liked to be hit and some general likes and dislikes before asking for his safeword. She agreed to strike him until he said it. She had him take his shirt off and kneel. She ran the flogger along his back, and he shuddered at the first touch of the leather. The other submissive watched from a plush armchair in the corner, looking relaxed and boneless.

“Somebody’s been bad, don’t you think, dear?” She asked her partner in the chair, who nodded eagerly in agreement. She walked around to his front and teased the leather tails down his bare chest. “Watching us across the room like a naughty, naughty boy.” She tutted, pulling back to look down at him. “I think he ought to be punished. What do you think sweetness?” She looked over her shoulder, where her partner was nodding.

Aziraphale felt his excitement mounting, he licked his lips. “I think that perhaps you might enjoy being watched.”

She whipped her head back around to glare at him disapprovingly. “Oh, what a nasty little mouth you’ve got. Depraved and sassy, are we?” There was a loud _snap_ as she swatted the floor. Aziraphale’s heart rate increased and pounded in his ears. She walked around behind him. _Yes, yes, yes._

“You’ll see where that mouth gets you.”

And then she struck him. Pain exploded across his back and he cried out. And then she struck him again, three more times in quick succession. Each blow was a hot, delicious brand in his skin and his mind was overtaken. His cock was at full attention and throbbing.

She leaned down close to his ear. “Is that okay, sweetie?”

Aziraphale nodded and gave her a smile. She was a good dom.

They continued in this fashion for a time, until Aziraphale finally said the word.

“Eden.” He proclaimed, panting and falling forward onto his hands.

She stopped at once and began to smooth her hands over his shoulders, soothing. He rubbed a hand over his cock, palming himself through his trousers. He was achingly hard.

“That’s a good boy,” she encouraged, “you did so well, you deserve a reward, go ahead.”

He unzipped his trousers and pulled the waist down just enough to free his cock. He was so close. His back burned and ached just so, and he was being watched. He liked being watched. He came quickly, with a whimper and a shudder. He rested for a bit, sated. He helped the pair clean up before he left. He fell into bed and was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

***

Crowley was having a better time of it than he would have imagined possible. He knew Gabriel didn’t go anywhere near the practice rooms and so those had become a sort of haven. He was making good progress and subsequent rehearsals had gone well. He had drinks with Anathema and Newt after most rehearsals and took great pleasure in having someone he could share his gripes with. He had lunch with Aziraphale most days. He designed his practice time around that, so that he’d just get to the point of frustration or exhaustion before Aziraphale came knocking and whisked him away. He very much liked Aziraphale. He was kind, exuberant, and beautiful. Crowley tried to reign in the flirting, but it was a wasted effort. He liked seeing the other man blush too much.

“Aren’t you worried about being ostracized? About being seen with the black sheep?” Crowley asked one day, over crepes at a quaint little café, a few blocks over.

Aziraphale stuffed his current forkful into his pretty pink mouth and made an indecent noise Crowley did his best to ignore. He dabbed at his lips demurely before answering.

“My dear, I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “I’m sure you’ve heard all the,” he waved his hand in the air wildly, “chatter about me. I could be bad for you, angel.” He winked, trying to lighten things up.

“While chatter about you certainly has been less than kind, I am more than capable of making up my own mind.”

Crowley’s heart thumped painfully, and a pleasant warmth surged through him. An actual angel. That’s what he was sitting across for all the good he was doing for Crowley’s charred heart. He was also squeezing it quite painfully, worming his way in. Crowley wasn’t keen on getting into another symphony relationship, especially not with Gabriel’s stand partner. Not that he had the time or energy—emotional or otherwise—to put into a relationship at the moment. Nevertheless, every time Aziraphale made another little sound of pleasure around a forkful of food, heat shot down Crowley’s spine.

Most of the time, Crowley pretended that Garbriel didn’t exist. Sometimes Gabriel would leer at him or snicker behind his hand. Crowley had shown up to a concerto rehearsal early, settling into the soloist’s seat to run through some of the tricky bits.

Gabriel coughed and said, “Look at what the cat dragged in.”

Crowley managed to ignore him and keep going.

Once, after Crowley had finished and Beez had told him ‘not bad’ Gabriel had snickered and said, “You know what that means, right sunshine? Not great, either.”

Crowley stared straight ahead, already committed to not engaging.

Aziraphale’s scandalized voice lit up his ears. “Gabriel! That was uncalled for.” He scolded.

Beez turned around and pinned Gabriel with her cold dark eyes. “It most certainly was.”

Crowley smiled darkly to himself as he made his way back to his section.

Things were going better than he might have expected, but he was still exhausted. He was stressed and tired and his anxiety was draining. What he wanted was to sleep for a very long time, or to spend hours watching some mindless telly. What he wanted, was to not have to think, to let someone else be in control.

He knew clubs like this one existed, but he’d never stepped foot in one so nice before. The club was high end, with the option of a one-night cover or a membership fee. Crowley couldn’t gripe too much about that. The place was remarkably clean, and security seemed very tight. The bar selection was also pretty good, so really no complaints, all around. He’d known about some of his more niche sexual preferences for a while. He’d been interested in bondage ever since he’d known it existed. He’d had an adventurous partner once and they’d been to a club like this—though it was far seedier and grimier. Gabriel had never wanted to indulge him in anything really, but especially not in anything like this. He’d thought Crowley was a deviant and had no problem telling him so and making him feel bad for it. Crowley hadn’t known better then. He knew better now.

He spent a couple nights watching, getting the lay of the land. Finally, after a particularly trying rehearsal that had lasted for hours and included a great deal of Beez’s particular brand of verbal abuse, he came with the intention of doing a bit more than watching. There was a couple he’d seen that was more than happy to let others join. All he wanted was some swats with the riding crop they were currently using. The dom was heavy handed with praise and that was just fine by Crowley. Of all his kinks, praise was the one he had the hardest time asking for. Finding it to be a good experience, Crowley came back after the next rehearsal hadn’t gone any better, delighted to find the same pair as before. He joined them, stripping and kneeling to watch the dom paint a man’s back in red welts with a riding crop.

Crowley’s head was just starting to buzz with that delightful floating emptiness, the kind that made this whole outing worth it, when he caught a glimpse of familiar white-blonde curls across the room. The neon lights cast it in a strange, pink glow, but no one else’s hair fell in quite the same way. He was suddenly aware of the fact that he was stark naked except for the choker he wore around his neck.

***

When Aziraphale had gone to the club that evening, he’d done so with the sole intent of watching. God how horrid that last few rehearsals had been. He walked straight to the bar for a gin and tonic and made polite small talk with the bartender. He turned, sipping from his drink as he surveyed the room, trying to find something that might hold his attention. Off to the right, in the little alcove where the instruments for impact play were displayed on the wall, a flash of shoulder length scarlet hair caught his eye. It was Crowley. He was naked and kneeling, watching quietly as a dom struck another kneeling man with a riding crop. The neon light was reflecting off the waves of his hair and casting his bronzed skin in an ethereal light. Aziraphale couldn’t stop his eyes from raking hungrily over Crowley’s form. If he’d ever imagined the man naked—and he had—it would have matched up perfectly with what he saw before him now. His body rippled with tension, lean but strong muscles apparent under the smooth skin. His stomach was taught and his hip bones sharp and delicious, begging for hands to caress them. The length of his legs was apparent, even with them bent at the knee and folded under him. Crowley’s eyes shot up and roved past him before shooting back and locking onto him. Well, there was nothing for it now, he’d been caught out. He gave a little wave. Crowley’s mouth hung open before he seemed to gather himself. He stood and made to head his way. Aziraphale swallowed thickly, doing his best to look unaffected as a fierce heat rose to his cheeks. He took in the sway of Crowley’s bare hipbones hungrily. Aziraphale turned back to face the bar and let Crowley sidle up next to him.

Crowley cleared his throat beside him. “So, come here often?”

A giggle escaped Aziraphale. “Actually, yes.”

Crowley smiled down at the bar.

Aziraphale took another swig of his drink. “Do you?”

Crowley smiled at him and nodded. He worried his bottom lip between his teeth, and it made Aziraphale want.

Crowley’s voice startled his attention away from his lips. “Do you ever, you know, _partake_? Or are you more of a watcher?”

Aziraphale gave him a coy smile. “Oh, I partake more often than not.” He relished in Crowley’s startled expression. He had done his best to hide it but hadn’t done it in time.

“And when you partake, which er, role do you prefer?” Crowley asked, voice the slightest bit uneven.

Aziraphale kept his breathing carefully controlled. “Well, I find it depends on which mood strikes me that evening.” He folded his hands primly in front of him and turned so he was facing Crowley.

Crowley hummed. “Me too.” He fell silent and pulled at a napkin in front of him. “And which mood are you in this evening?”

Aziraphale considered carefully. He hadn’t meant to be a participant this particular evening, but the interest had made itself apparent in the last few minutes. He went to take another sip of his drink but found it was gone.

“I suppose I’m in a more of a controlling mood tonight.” He knew it was true as soon as the words had left his mouth. He was in the mood to dom. With every second that passed as he stood next to Crowley’s naked body, the want became greater.

Crowley’s pupils widened enough for Aziraphale to see and the sight made his heart gallop.

His tongue darted out to lick his lips. “How convenient, because I find that I’m in a rather, complimentary mood.”

The air seemed to crackle around them. Aziraphale’s heart pulsed heavily in his ears. He turned so he was facing Crowley completely.

“If we are to do this, we should discuss expectations. For instance, I’m not looking for anything serious.” Aziraphale arched a brow, waiting to see if this might pose a problem.

“Nor am I. I don’t have the time for anything serious.”

Azirphale let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. That was true for both of them.

Crowley leaned against the counter. “We should keep these sorts of meetings here, unless you’re opposed?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No, I’m not opposed, I find the private rooms here to be quite adequate.”

“Well then, I think we might be able to work out an arrangement.”

Crowley held out his hand. Aziraphale wrapped his own hand around it and shook it. A handshake seemed strange, but appropriate.

“Yes, I think we might.” He quirked a corner of his mouth upward.

Aziraphale secured the key for a private room from the bartender and they made their way inside. Aziraphale sat down on one of the benches.

“Kneel.” He instructed, gesturing to the space right in front of him.

Crowley complied, sinking gracefully to his knees. He was half hard.

“Tell me what you like.”

Crowley folded his hands in his lap and kept them still. “Uhh, I like to please.” A flush rose to Crowley’s angular cheeks and Aziraphale found the site arousing. “I like,” Crowley cast his eyes downward but continued, “I like being praised.” The color on his cheeks deepened and spread across the bridge of his nose. Aziraphale extended a hand and caressed a cheek. Crowley leaned into the touch.

“Go on,” he urged. “Tell me what else you like.”

Crowley swallowed and Aziraphale’s eyes followed the motion of his throat. “I like being struck.”

“Mm, and do you like bruises?” Crowley’s eyes flashed and he nodded. Aziraphale moved a hand to card through his hair. It was thick and soft, and it slid luxuriously through his fingers.

“I like having my hair pulled.” Aziraphale sunk his fingers deeper into Crowley’s hair and gave a gentle tug. Crowley groaned. The noise made Aziraphale’s growing erection twitched.

“I like being used.” The words came out quietly, almost a whisper. Aziraphale’s arousal was reaching a peak. He shifted in his seat and the motion jostled his sensitive cock. He suppressed a shudder and took firmer hold of Crowley’s hair. Crowley arched his neck against the hold, increasing the tension. “And you can call me names, I like that sort of thing sometimes but—”

Aziraphale cut him off. “But nothing too cruel or too mean? Praise is most important?”

Crowley dropped his eyes and nodded sheepishly. Aziraphale loosened his hold and carded his fingers through his hair. So lovely, that hair. Aziraphale had guessed correctly. It made sense for Crowley to desire praise. It made perfect sense for someone under as much stress as him, talked about behind every closed door or behind every hand, to desire words of praise. His name was echoed in whispers up and down the hallway, the chatter was incessant. Aziraphale got the sense that while Crowley could prove himself—was proving himself—that’s all he could expect. No one would tell him how good he was—certainly not now, and certainly not when it was over. The best he might hope for is a sneer and a “thanks for not fucking that up.” He must have been starving, aching for just a little praise. Aziraphale could do that. They were all things Aziraphale could do, things he _enjoyed_ doing. Oh, Aziraphale could take care of him. His cock was fully erect under his layers now, painfully so. His eyes ran over Crowley’s form and found that Crowley’s was, too. Hard and flushed red with a drop of precome adorning the pretty head.

The sight sent a wave of arousal washing over him, the intensity of which frightened him. A warning flashed distantly, somewhere in the back of his mind there was a little red light and a blaring alarm. Something was trying to warn him that if he did this, there would be no going back. It was warning him he might find it difficult to control himself, to keep his emotions close to his chest. He took in Crowley’s wide, wanting eyes; his pupils blown so wide the golden irises were almost eclipsed. The hair ruffled from his own hands running through it. His perfect, gorgeous body, the lines of it seemingly sculpted with Aziraphale’s specific brand of sin in mind.

“Thank you, Crowley. I’ve several ideas for how we might proceed this evening.”

Crowley shifted, lifted his chest in a show of attentiveness.

“What would you like to establish as a safe word?”

“Aardvark.” Crowley said it quickly and flatly and Aziraphale had to stifle a surprised laugh. His mouth still quirked, and Crowley caught it.

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “What? Not gonna come up in regular conversation, is it? Unless you’re some kind of aardvark hobbyist or enthusiast in your spare time?”

Aziraphale smiled indulgently at him. “No, no I’m not. A fine choice.” He brought his hand to Crowley’s cheek again and used his thumb to stroke the sharp bone. “And if you can’t speak,” He stroked a path with his thumb to Crowley’s bottom lip, delighting in the hitch of Crowley’s breath, “A safe action?”

“Two open handed taps to your shin.” The breath of each word blew hot against Aziraphale’s thumb. Crowley demonstrated the action, using an open hand to tap twice, firmly on the front of Aziraphale’s shin.

“If I hear or feel either of those, I will stop immediately.” Crowley nodded in understanding.

“Now, why don’t I tell you what I have in mind.” Aziraphale pushed his thumb past Crowley’s lips, into the wet heat of his mouth, and pressed down on his tongue. His fingers wrapped under Crowley’s chin, holding his sharp jaw firmly in place.

“I’m going to strike you with my hand and use your pretty little mouth for my own pleasure. Does that sound agreeable?”

Crowley was salivating, Aziraphale felt the burst of liquid fill his mouth and coat the pad of his thumb. His stomach burned. He slid his thumb free of Crowley’s mouth, a single thread of saliva stretching and then breaking between the digit and his parted lips.

Crowley panted and swallowed. “I er, I like it rough. You—you can be rough.”

Aziraphale cocked a brow. “Oh?” He asked with interest. “And what do you like about it?” He folded his hands in his lap, politely waiting for Crowley to elaborate.

“I like, uhm, I like gagging on it, a bit.” His eyes traced a whorl of wood on the floor before coming up to meet Aziraphale’s again. “Not so much that I can’t breathe, but a bit is nice.”

Aziraphale watched as Crowley bit his lip again and he resisted the urge to unzip his trousers and shove his cock down Crowley’s throat. He could still feel the slick heat of that mouth on his thumb.

Crowley cleared his throat and inhaled deeply through his nose. “Could I uhm, ask for something?”

“Of course, dear.” Aziraphale tugged on his waistcoat, smoothing it out, soothing some of his nerves. “You are the one ultimately in control here.” He reminded Crowley.

“I do like scenes with punishments and rewards,” Crowley began. “And you said you were going to strike me,” Crowley saw the concern flash across Aziraphale’s face and rushed to clarify, “I want you to spank me, but I want it as like, a reward? If that makes sense.”

Aziraphale nodded, his plans solidifying in his mind. “Something like this then? Oh darling, your mouth feels so good around my cock and then I pull you off by your hair and spank you on all fours?”

“Yeah, that sounds fine.” Crowley croaked.

“Well then, let’s begin, shall we?” Aziraphale waited for Crowley’s nod. He spread his thighs and unzipped his trousers, shoving the waistband of his pants down and finally freeing his throbbing member.

“Come here.” He instructed, and Crowley shuffled hurriedly over to kneel between his thighs. Aziraphale grabbed a handful of hair and yanked to maneuver Crowley’s head, causing him to moan brokenly. Aziraphale savored the noise and then he fulfilled his earlier desire; he shoved his cock past Crowley’s lips and into the searing heat of his mouth, finally providing a modicum of relief to his aching cock. He groaned as Crowley moaned around him, the vibrations traveling up his cock and to his core, stroking the head of the monster that lived there. He fisted both hands in Crowley’s hair and thrust himself into the base, moaning as Crowley’s throat spasmed around him.

“Oh, good boy," Aziraphale cooed, shuddering.

He pulled all the way out, giving Crowley time to breathe. Crowley gasped for air and lapped eagerly at the underside of his cock. Aziraphale plunged himself back in, letting Crowley suck and move at his own pace for a while. His tongue was delicious. He used it to stroke up and down the underside of the shaft as he bobbed, swirling it around the sensitive head when he reached the top.

When it started to become too much, when it started to feel too good, he thrust himself deep down Crowley’s throat a couple times and pulled him roughly off. He threw Crowley onto all fours and swatted his arse with his hand. Crowley moaned each time his hand connected with the bare skin of his arse.

“What a talented mouth you have, so perfect for sucking my cock.”

When Aziraphale’s pleasure had receded a bit, he pulled Crowley back to his knees.

“Can I, can I touch myself?” Crowley looked up at him with wet, red lips and a flushed face, looking thoroughly debauched.

Aziraphale stroked his chin. “My dear, if you are very good and you do a very good job, you won’t have to worry about touching yourself.”

With that, Crowley took Aziraphale’s cock back into his mouth and keened around it. When the pleasure mounted to another precipice, Aziraphale pulled him off and spanked him again, leaving angry red marks in the shape of his hand all over Crowley’s arse. He closed his eyes, savoring the moans being torn from Crowley. Aziraphale pulled him back in place again and Crowley swallowed his cock eagerly. The pleasure built and Aziraphale did not want to deny himself again. He grabbed both sides of Crowley’s head and thrust into him before spilling hotly down his throat, panting.

Crowley swallowed, whimpering.

“My dear, you did very, very well.” Aziraphale caressed a cheek. It was flushed and warm to the touch.

“Come here,” Aziraphale instructed, indicating Crowley should sit on one of his thighs. Crowley was dripping precome and Aziraphale took his cock in hand, smearing it over the head with his thumb, causing Crowley to whine desperately. He tightened his fist around the shaft and began to pump, using his other arm to loop around Crowley’s back, steadying him.

“Yes dear, you did so well for me. Let me hear you, let me hear how good it feels.”

Crowley moaned louder and louder as Aziraphale pumped his fist faster until Crowley was coming over his hand, a string of broken moans spilling from his lips. Aziraphale soothed Crowley’s shuddering body through the aftershocks, thinking the sound of Crowley lost in pleasure was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed yourself. Leave a note here or come chat on [tumblr](https://halfofmysoulistrees.tumblr.com/) if you feel like it.
> 
> The pieces they're working on include:  
> Vivaldi - Cello Concerto D minor, [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nVQhXgl-jQY) is the version I'm thinking of  
> Vltava (The Maldau)- Smetana  
> Symphony No 5, Mvt 4-Shostakovich  
> Barber’s adagio for strings


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